


So Beautiful, Yet So Unaware

by SouthernBird



Series: Shance Week 2016 [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Dancing, Festivals, Flowers, Fluff, He's a dork that picks flowers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Shance Week 2016: Pining/Confession, Shiro is a pining man, Sugary sweet, Sweet, shance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 10:20:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8620729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernBird/pseuds/SouthernBird
Summary: Written for Shance Week 2016! Day One - Pining/ConfessionIn which Shiro is a pining sap and picks flowers on an alien planet.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was inspired by the lantern festival from 'Tangled' due to it being one of my favorite movies.

The flowers feel strange in in the metal grip of his hand, so light and yet so heavy all the same.

If any creature on this newly-liberated planet asked Shiro why he felt the need to pluck some of their native flowers, his only answer would be that he wasn’t really _sure_ at all. The flowers, or at least, that’s what the Black Paladin likened the sight to, had been swaying idly in the softest of zephyrs, as if dancing alluringly so that they might catch the attention of a pining man.

Honestly, to a pining man, the flowers incite the loveliest of fascinations, the blues of the wispy petals swirling together into bell-like enclosures, navy into azure into sky, mottled with the daintiest of white specs. To Shiro, it was as though ocean depths and seafoam painted each petal in resplendent unison, a feat only found here on this little planet lightyears away from his own.

With his little handful of flowers, Shiro steps out of the field and through the organic border of the capital city (“It’s like something from freaking _Star Trek!_ ” he recalls Pidge excitedly saying, her hand pressing against the almost rubber-like force field before shoving herself right through), and silently prays that Allura and Coran are not looking for him. Taking a quick glance through the dwindling crowds of this area of the city, he’s relieved to see no signs of Allura or the ruling family of the planet since he did, technically, sneak away to find these flowers. Diplomatic excursions, he feels, are not his place to be a part of. He is simply a soldier, fighting for the good of the universe, and politics are a little too out of his league in his own opinion.  

Rather than focus on his inevitable quandary, though, Shiro finds that the capitol is a bustling place, like any ‘metropolis’ throughout the galaxies , abuzz with excitement and celebration. After the iron clutch of the Galran Empire had been obliterated thanks to his team, Shiro can actually take a moment to admire his team’s hard work, how people have hanged brightly-dyed banners from their tall buildings and how they have lit lanterns in all the colors of Voltron.

Strands of little bells and chimes flutter above and create the most fragile of music, gentle songs accompanying the ambiance of festivities that have been ambled together in a main courtyard in the center of the capital. Shiro wanders with the rest of the stragglers that have been working so diligently on their most humble decorations, and he finds his eyes scouring about to take in the hand-painted seals and foreign letters. Every piece of woven fabric on proud display seems frayed, yet new with vibrant hope.

With a heavy heart, Shiro allows himself to think that the Galra had destroyed the sentiments of a planet in their quest to conquer, burning symbols and values in their diabolical reach. Now, though, the shimmering golds, purples, and blues, they all bring a sense of peace, of victory over Shiro’s heavy soul; they’ve done something _good,_ something _righteous._

The delightful chatter of what he presumes are children ease him out of his own mental space, causing him to stop for a moment to peer at the fish-like species that whisper shyly to one another once they realize who he is. _Hero,_ their eyes of awe and admiration say it all. In return, Shiro humbly nods and waves with his free hand, eliciting giggles and smiles before one or two are dragging him along _._ “Come see, Mr. Hero!” they exclaim, and he can’t help but laugh in tune with them. Their joy is a gentle resonation that he has not experienced in such a long, _long_ time, thinking of his own younger siblings that wait back home, the pieces of his family that believe that he’s still _dead—_ but he intends to go back and hope that they will love him unconditionally, even with the battle scars and blood-stained hands.

Again, the little ones draw him away from darker thoughts, reveal to him with excited points and laughter at how _happy_ their people are thanks to Team Voltron.

Shiro gazes in sheer astonishment at how despite the festival taking place for their honor, his team have found little niches within the crowds to add their own little touches.

At an expansive and beautifully decorated food stand, adorned with more of the blue bell-like flowers and whispering vines, Hunk stands toe to toe with a native cook, helping not only helping with the cooking, but also handing over delicious morsels of piping-hot food to the citizens. “The Hunk Special!” the Yellow Paladin announces with jubilance while he carefully offers a plate to a flock of younger ones. At Hunk’s side seems to be a bit of a reluctant recruit, Keith silently—shyly, Shiro might even say—assisting Hunk with an air of what seems to be resignation, but, ah, there’s such a tiny hint of a smile; it brings a warm smile to Shiro’s own lips.

Curious, Shiro watches his little makeshift troop laugh and glide into the gathering crowds, shouting for him to come see, _come see!_ He starts to follow because his heart has always been fond of children, always found it easy to talk to them, to let them believe they can depend on him, all stemming from his time as an elder brother and helping his mother with their daily lives.

Before Shiro manages to step closer to the cheering crowd, a synapse snaps and he pauses; _oh, God, where’s Pidge_?  Quickly, gray eyes scour around for Pidge, and there’s a sudden worry, a beating in his chest because, _yes,_ Pidge is feisty and can take of herself, _but_ she’s so _small_ and hard to _find_ sometimes and—

There she is.

With a sigh of relief, Shiro thanks every star within three lightyear radius of this planet that she’s actually near Hunk and Keith, a short distance away, tinkering away at a small hovering unit she’s salvaged from the wreckage of from the Galran war path. A few of the natives are gathered around her, metalsmiths, possibly, as they offer her tools of their trade, her smile brilliant as she accepts their tools and their words of wisdom.

The children return to him, a little huffy this time since he neglected to follow them, grabbing at his free hand and tugging him along once again. “Come look and see! Come see!”

The music of the planet lulls Shiro into a sense of self, having never heard such instruments, but the beat is still all familiar; dancing, this music is simply for dancing and celebratory shifts of the body, for spins and claps and laughter abound. This music is for the people, to convey their happiness, to live their lives fruitfully and elatedly. This music is for lovers, for friends, for family, and–.

For Lance.

The children, bless them, had shifted him to a spot closer to the wall where less people were gathered to chant and to clap, as if to encourage the dancers in the heart of the main courtyard. Lanterns hover lazily above, shimmering warm lights bright in the waning of the suns, creating a romance that brought Shiro’s heart to a standstill, a complete _hault._

Everything stops as he peers at the Blue Paladin himself laughing so _freely_ and so _kindly,_ arms and legs weaving a dance that calls out to Shiro _. Beautiful_ slams into his head, the word echoing over and over and the flowers in his hand seem so frail and so small, so lacking in the sight of their intended recipient, who is so graceful in his movements, dancing in time and in rhythm with the fellow attendees.

Oh, and _God_ , who decided to drape that fabric along Lance’s shoulders and waist, sheer blue glittering thing flowing around his hips and thighs as the young man claps the beat, saunters to the music to effortlessly, Shiro wonders if this is really what it feels to fall in love, this sensation of _helplessness_ in the wake of something that is so corpulent and yet so ethereal.

He’s a dead man walking, cause of death by pretty oceans that stop once they lay upon his prone from and by the pretty grin that curls along those full lips.

“Shiro!” Lance calls out, laughing as he spins and curls his way over, Shiro’s pulse increasing tenfold in sheer _oh, no, oh no_ because he’s an idiot holding a small, dismal bouquet for this mermaid on land.

“Hey, Lance, uh,” Shiro starts then stop, his brain misfiring on every possible acknowledgment of the other, it’s dismally pathetic. Here he is, a grown ass man, literally floored and left speechless by a drop of sweat rolling down Lance’s jaw.

The tenderest of laughter rings in his ears, reminding Shiro of the chimes and bells that border against the darkening sky above them. Lance leans closer and the older man nearly freaks, nearly jumps out of his own armor and even out of his own skin before realizing that worst; Lance is smelling the flowers.

“Who’re those for?” Lance asks, and it’s so innocent, there’s a dreadful sense of betrayal coldly washing through Shiro’s veins. His heart thuds and then drops, stomach in twisted knots that never seem to thread free. The trademark smirk is there after a bout of silence, but Shiro notices how it never reaches his eyes.

A lot of Lance’s smiles never reach his eyes, it seems.

“Gotta girlfriend? Found some pretty thing to ask out?”

The inquiries bring a crease of a frown, Shiro’s whole demeanor slumping forward because did those words always seem hollow? Did Lance always speak like that?

Screw it. He’s grown. He’s mature. Takashi Shirogane has aced flight simulators and became a Champion for an Empire millions of miles from home for the sheer entertainment of said Empire, and he’s fought tooth and nail for _everything_.

_Because once, in the dead of night after a long, hard day of training routines and flight simulations, Shiro heard Lance muttering to Hunk in the most somber of tones, voice so laden with sadness that it tore at the strings of Shiro’s heart._

_“I’m not really much to look at, I get that, or even really that great of a catch, but…”_

But now, the thought of Lance standing there, waiting patiently for an answer, any sort of response that would appease his curiosity holds his tongue, and _no,_ this isn’t necessary, isn’t the damn time because he’s old enough to know how to _handle_ these things (then again, Shiro hasn’t dated a lot). Lance is an ocean, a stormy sea that batters Shiro’s resolve and reluctance with waves and tidal rifts that eventually, his jaw unhinges and Shiro offers his humble gift with only a slight cant of his arm.

It’s because Lance is so very _beautiful_ , and yet so unaware of how beautiful he is in Shiro’s eyes.

“I, uh… yeah, I did.”

The look on Lance’s face nearly sets Shiro aflame because it’s almost breaking, almost as though, truly, this must all be some funny joke, _‘haha, Shiro, real funny.’_ He so desperately wants to correct his mistake, to tell the blue-eyed beauty, no, it isn’t fallacy, is far from a fallacy because it’s so true, as true as the moons that rise in the starlit sky. Heart racing, pulse digging deep and pounding, he attempts, with a failed muted _bleat_ of a sound, to fix everything, but then… it’s the smoothing of brows and a shy little smile that sets Shiro’s heart back on course to shores unknown, uncharted. Gazing closer, there’s only the faintest of blushes on those cheeks; maybe Lance is as lost as he is. Maybe. Just, maybe.

“These really for me?” Lance asks, and despite the music and the hollers and the festivities, Shiro hears him, feels relief and adoration flood every capillary and ground him firmly. “They’re uh… really pretty,” is the last thing Shiro permits to even be said, stepping forward to grin because it’s the smile on Lance’s gorgeous face, the same smile he gave Shiro at their introduction, that drives a pulse of motivation, of _need_ , through him.

It’s this smile, all the same, the smile with corners of lips tugged aside for a sincere façade. It’s an uncommon one, but one that the Black Paladin finds to be one of his favorites because, well, love at first sight is apparently a thing he does, whether it’s wise or not so.

Before he knows it, the flowers are tucked behind both of Lance’s ears, petals draping to frame such a lovely face, blush now more ruby than dusky pink as eyes radiate disbelief yet _hope_ at the taller of them. The tips of Shiro’s fingers caress so lightly along warm, sun-kissed skin, his own disbelief evident that since the shack, his pining heart has quested to know Lance, know him as the tides know the shores, as the clouds know the sky. Oh, damn him, damn Shiro, because he was a thriving beauty such as Lance go about this life they all share now, and never let him ever be aware of how beautiful he is.

“They suit you,” are the only words Shiro is allowed into the hot, festival air before there’s lips on his cheeks and a hand in his own, effervescent laughter ringing like the little bells once again in his ears as he’s dragged into the dancing troupes with beauty so unaware.


End file.
